(1961) The Chapman Report

by Irving Wallace

  Discarding her soggy towel, she sprinkled talcum on her skin, gently smoothed it in, then applied perfume behind her ears and between her breasts. She walked, naked, into the dressing room that led to the bedroom, released a flowing white peignoir from its hanger, and pulled it on. Loosely knotting it at the throat, she continued to the bedroom. She surveyed what she variously named, in her mind, her mausoleum or purgatory. The farthest half of the customed bed was a mess-as if it had been through a mixmaster -the pale rose bedspread a mangled mound, and the table next to the bed accusingly told her why. The ash tray was heaped with cigarette butts, the bottle of green pills was uncapped, the fifth of gin was almost empty, and the tall glass still contained the remains of an old drink and worn lemon peel. The entire room-no windows were open, for she had an inordinate fear of prowlers-reeked of stale tobacco and nauseating drink. How much had she consumed last night? Perhaps a third of the fifth. Possibly more. She could not recall. She remembered only that the two pills-or was it three?-had not brought oblivion, and so, against all resolve, she had taken a drink, and then another, and had not stopped. She had slept like death, yet the tortured blankets and pillow pressed low between the gilded headboard and the mattress gave evidence that (for her) to sleep was still to dream.

  Quickly, she raised a window to air the room, and then, because the bath had revived and cleansed her, she fled the foul air. Passing through the narrow hall, through the living room and dining room into the kitchen, she tried desperately to focus on a plan for the long day ahead. As she started the coffee on the stove, and took down cup and saucer in a hand that trembled, she thought that she might visit her parents in Burbank. She had not seen them for weeks. But the very thought of a day with that loveless, bickering pair-an old father, senile and regretful, and a stepmother spouting shrill cliches-was more than she was prepared to endure. She might telephone the wonderful child down the block, Mary Ewing McManus, and go shopping with her. But she dreaded the youngster’s effervescence and energy, and knew that in the end Mary’s presence would make her feel unclean. She might drive into Beverly Hills and visit those females in the rental library-though she still possessed three novels that were unread and woefully overdue-and then shop for a new sweater and skirt, since several alimony checks had piled up undeposited through neglect and inertia. But Beverly Hills seemed a million miles away, and she was in no mood to walk through streets of noisy, busy, overdressed women.

  Pacing, as she waited for the coffee, she felt that frighteningly recurring feeling of being suspended in space, rootless. Her peignoir had loosened, partially exposing her body, and she covered herself and tightened the cord, more distraught than ever. She did not know what she should do, but she did know what she would not do. She would not drink. The very thought of drink seemed, at once, a crutch, until she could decide. Quickly, she turned to the maple cabinet, opened it, and studied the row of bottles. There was an untouched bottle of gin. The smell of the bedroom was still in her nostrils, and the bottle repelled her. She reached for the French brandy, and a snifter above, and went into the dining room. She poured the snifter full, brought it to her nose, inhaling the aroma (which was unaccountably bitter), and then hastily drank.

  She heard the coffee pot boiling in the kitchen. She finished the snifter, hastily filled it again, and then went in for her coffee. She shut off the burner. The coffee seemed superfluous right now. She leaned against the sink and drank the brandy. The burning in her throat was hardly noticeable now, and she was beginning to feel warm at the forehead. She finished the snifter, and replenished it a second time. She sipped it slowly, determined that this should be her last. There was the young manager of that food market in The Village Green, a nice blond boy, who was always very friendly. Maybe he wanted to be serious. Maybe she should encourage him. They could go to a movie tonight. It might be the beginning of something that made sense, at last. How could she have been so foolish at that foolish school? How could she have let that mere boy, a student, take her into the back yard? Or had she taken him? It was hard to remember; it had been so horrible. He-who was he? -the boy-he was a senior anyway, and she was younger then-he, she meant her husband, was going to be in the lab until ten. Or was it nine? It was so difficult to sort it out.

  She stared glassily at the snifter. It was empty. She had only been sipping it. Maybe she had spilled it. She looked down at the floor. No. She took the bottle and poured. She would sip slowly and drive to the drugstore. The man at the register was always nice. And more her type. He really liked her. Maybe he was too shy to ask for a date. Of course he was shy. The way he blushed last week when she asked for a box of sanitary napkins. Wasn’t-wasn’t it -was it not funny the way things were? When she was in high school, she would almost sneak in for sanitary pads, always search and find the plain wrapped box, as if no one knew then, and it was a crime. And later, in her twenties, she would ask for the box briskly, but quickly. And now she was starting in her thirties, and she asked for the box too loudly, as if she was proud that she was still a full-blown woman.

  The doorbell was ringing. Her ears were buzzing, and so she listened to be very, very sure. It was the doorbell. She stood up-when had she sat down?-and walked with studied care past the refrigerator, through the service porch, carefully unlocked the door and opened it.

  “Good mornin’, Ma’am.” He was standing, leaning sideways, because he was carrying a large bottle of spring water on one shoulder. He was so tall he would bump his head, except he was sideways. She inclined her head to examine his sideways face. Bush of chestnut hair. Eyes too narrow. Nose too long. Lips too full. Everything too much. But he was smiling. He was friendly. He liked her. He was tall.

  “Another fine day, goin’ to be,” he added. She was behind the door, opening it farther, as he came through and lowered the bottle to the floor.

  “You’re new,” she said thickly.

  “Takin’ two routes today. Hank’s down with the bug.”

  “Oh.”

  He wiped the bottle quickly, unscrewed the cap, rose to remove the old bottle from the container; then, with apparently no effort, hoisted the filled bottle high and tipped it into the tank. He watched with a certain satisfaction as the fresh water seeped, gurgling, into the tank.

  “There you are,” he said, turning. “Now you’re set up for another two weeks.”

  “Good service,” she said. She saw that he was staring at her awkwardly, and she remembered that she had on no brassiere or pants beneath her peignoir. But the folds kept the negligee from being fully transparent. So what was he staring at anyway? Maybe because he liked her. Good boy.

  “Well,” he said.

  “Do you get paid now?”

  “I believe so, Ma’am.”

  “All right. Come on.”

  She moved unsteadily into the kitchen. She heard him behind her. She started into the dining room.

  “Should I wait here, Ma’am?”

  She felt unaccountably annoyed. “My name’s Naomi.”

  “Yes-“

  “Follow me. I have my purse-“

  She chose her footsteps slowly, and heard him behind her. They moved through the dining area, and living room, into the hall, and entered the bedroom. She glanced at him. He stood inside the door, not sure what to do with his hands. He was very tall. He smiled at her. She smiled back. She took her purse from the dresser and held it out.

  “Here,” she said, “take the money.”

  “But-“

  “Whatever it is.”

  He went stiffly to her, took the purse, opened it, fumbled inside, and found only a five-dollar bill.

  “I have change,” he said. He returned the purse to her and dug into his pockets. She dropped the -purse on the bed and sat down on the edge, next to the crumpled rose bedspread. She watched him as he made the change.

  She crossed her legs. “I like you,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  He looked up from the bills in his hand. Her negligee had fallen away from
her legs, and her thighs were exposed. He flushed. “Johnny,” he said.

  Quickly, he held out the change. She reached for it, but took his wrist instead. “Come here,” she said. “That’s not what I want.”

  She pulled him, and as she did so she got to her feet. The cord at her throat, loosened, fell away, and the peignoir was open. She saw his eyes drop, and his Adam’s apple bob, and knew that he saw the brown nipples and knew that this would be a good day.

  “I want you,” she said, smiling crookedly.

  He was all breath and fright. “I’m not allowed to, Ma’am. I’d get in trouble-“

  “Don’t be silly.” She closed the distance between them, lifting her arms around his neck. “Now, kiss me.”

  He reached down to remove her, but his hands missed her ribs and came to rest on the immense breasts. He pulled his hands away as if he had touched flame.

  “I’m married,” he gasped. “I got kids-“

  “Kiss me; love me-“

  “I can’t!”

  Reaching behind, frantically, he tore her arms off him, then wheeled, and almost running, in great, grotesque strides, he dashed out of the room.

  She stood very still, riveted almost, listening to his receding footsteps in the living room, the kitchen, and then, after a moment, from far away, the service porch door slamming.

  She did not move. That’ll be something to tell the boys, she thought. Filthy little prig. Probably castrated anyway. What would he know about love? Jack rabbit. She looked down at her swelling breasts. She felt sober and nauseated, and could taste the brandy high in her throat, and it was sour.

  For three weeks this had not happened, and now it had almost happened. Why had it happened? What was wrong? She sank down to the bed, and then lay on it, curling her legs beneath her. She felt the tears on her face, and then her body shaking and shaking as she began to sob. Her stomach was in her throat, and she

  wanted to retch. She stumbled to her feet, felt her way into the bathroom, and was ill. After long minutes, pale and weakened, she returned to the kitchen. She relighted the burner, and, waiting for the coffee to heat once more, she wandered to the window. The Chinese elm was full, and birds were all about it. Somewhere beyond, a dog barked, and she could hear the children in the street. It would be hot again today. She wondered what she would do.

  Kathleen Ballard sat at her formica table and studied the list in the open folder. She had been sitting many minutes, content to smoke and take a break since she had telephoned Naomi Shields. She ran her eyes down the checked names. Ursula. Sarah. Mary. Teresa. Naomi. They had consumed over an hour-she knew the press release by heart now-and there were still seven more to call. Would it not have been more efficient, she asked herself, to send each member of the Association a letter informing her of Dr. Chapman’s lecture? At once, she knew that, while it might have been more efficient, it would have been less effective. Sarah Goldsmith and Naomi Shields would have ignored the printed invitations. And how many more? It was only direct conversation that had forced acceptances out of both women, and perhaps out of all of them. Still, thought Kathleen, it was ridiculous and ironic that she, of all people, was being forced to sell Dr. Chapman and his voyeurs to the others. Surely not one of them, all things considered, would hear or meet him with more unwillingness.

  She considered the warm telephone again. Duty was duty, and that was that. Glancing at the remainder of the list, she reached for the receiver. Her hand was poised over it, when, jarringly, it rang. Startled, she instinctively withdrew her hand. At last, after the third imperious ring, she answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Katie, doll? It’s Ted.”

  She was not sure if she was pleased or troubled, “Ted, how are you? When did you get in?”

  “Five minutes ago. I’m still in Operations. I had to hear your voice before I got tied up with Metzgar.”

  “Was it fun?”

  “Where I was stuck, North Africa looked like Carswell Base in Texas.”

  “You didn’t even get to see Livingston or a Mau Mau?”

  “I got to see the PX. Period. How have you been? Missed me?”

  “Of course.”

  She had not missed him, really. When Ted had informed her, two weeks before, that he had to represent Radcone in a test flight to Africa, sponsored by Strategic Air Command, she had been relieved. Ever since Boynton’s death sixteen months ago, Ted Dyson had been a visitor and a friend. Ted had known Boy, as he and most of America liked to call Boynton Ballard, long before Kathleen had known him. Ted and Boynton flirted with MIGs over the Yalu, wing to wing. Immediately after, Ted had gone to work for J. R. Metzgar and Radcone Aircraft in Van Nuys, and later, following a great blare of publicity when Boynton had joined him there as a test pilot, Ted always proudly claimed part of the credit for snaring him.

  After Kathleen had married Boynton, it was Ted Dyson who was retained as number one bachelor friend-to run an occasional household errand, fill in when there was a female visitor from New York, escort Kathleen to a play when Boynton was busy. It was natural that when Boynton was killed, Ted would appear as official family mourner. The entire nation, Metzgar, the President in the White House, mourned, but Ted had seniority. At first, he had appeared irregularly, out of respect for Kathleen’s grief, but making her aware always that he was hovering near and need only be summoned. Then, gradually, in the sixteen months past, a subtle change had overtaken Ted Dyson. As friend of the hero, he was also heir to the hero’s mantle. He was elevated to the position of Radcone’s first test pilot and trouble shooter, Boynton’s job. He was recipient of some of Boynton’s old glory and attention. And soon, as Kathleen perceived it, he began to think himself the only male capable of possessing and satisfying Boynton’s widow. He was the successor and began to conduct himself as such. His appearances were more regular. His familiarity was more aggressive. And on their last date, just before the African trip, emboldened as he was by several drinks, he kissed Kathleen good night as they stood inside the door and then somehow found her breasts with his hands. But she had moved quickly away, and he had not pursued her. It was tacitly understood, by both, that he had drunk too much. And now he was back.

  “… so that’s the way I think it’s going to work out,” he was saying.

  She had not heard a word. “That’s fine, Ted,” she said quickly.

  “Well, anyway, I’m going to be here, and I’ve got a lot to tell you. When can I see you?”

  “I … I don’t know. I’ve been so busy-“

  “So now you’ll be busier.”

  Before she could think of what to say, she heard the noisy approach of a car in the driveway. It puzzled her. “Ted, one sec, there’s someone here. I’ll be right back.”

  Rising hastily from the table, she went to the window and peered outside. A battered station wagon was moving around the circular drive to her entrance. The car was familiar, and then, as it braked to a halt, she recognized the driver. At once, she remembered. Last night, James Scoville had telephoned just as Grace Waterton came calling. In haste and confusion, she had consented to let Scoville drop by in the morning. He had said that he wanted only a few minutes. Something about straightening out several points in the fourth chapter.

  Kathleen hurried back to the telephone. “Ted, I’m sorry. It’s Jim Scoville. I promised to help him this morning.”

  “Hasn’t he finished that book yet?”

  “It takes time.”

  “Well, what about our date?”

  She knew that she would have to see him. Until three weeks ago it had been painless enough, sometimes even welcome, for it gave her companionship at the movies. If Ted had only not spoiled it by making a pass at her. But he had been drunk. “All right,” she said. “Thursday. Join Deirdre and me for dinner. We can go to a show after.”

  “Swell, Katie. Until then.”

  Scoville was rapping the brass door knocker discreetly. After a troubled glance at the list of names, Kathleen hurri
ed to the door and admitted the writer.

  “Hello, Jim,” she said. “I really should have called you. I’m all tied up this morning.”

  “It’ll only be a minute,” he said in his apologetic way.

  “Well, if it’s only that-“

  “No more. I finished chapter four, and there’s just the matter of verifying some dates and straightening out a couple of inconsistencies.”

  “Very well.” She nodded. “Let’s sit down. Do you need paper?”

  “No, no. I have everything.”

  They went to the arrangement around the Biedemeir pear wood tea table. Kathleen sat on the sofa, and Scoville lowered himself to the edge of the turquoise chair, tugging a wad of yellow paper from his sport coat pocket and finding a ball point pen which he clicked open.

  “How’s the book going?” asked Kathleen.

  “I think I can finish in two months.”

  “That’s fast.”

  “Yes. I guess I’m enthused. Sonia had to force me to bed at midnight last night.”

  Kathleen had a kind of acquaintance affection for James Scoville. He was so knocked about and unobtrusive. He gave the impression of being almost six foot-the manner of his head pulled into worn, hunched shoulders, protectively, like a tortoise, made accurate estimates of his height impossible. He had dull, ash-blond hair, a bland, freckled face that seemed Albino pink, watery eyes, and receding chin, and his clothes always appeared as if he had slept in them. It was Metzgar of Radcone Aircraft who had arranged for Scoville to do the biography of Boynton.

  Metzgar was wealthy and important, but like all sedentary men who had risen through use of desk and telephone, he worshiped men of action. Although he had hired Boynton, he knew that Boynton did not work for him. Boynton was his own man and respected no channels except those direct to God. This, as well as Boynton’s reckless courage (in most men, born of fear, but in Boynton’s case; as Kathleen alone knew, born of insensitivity and a curious, egotistical, divine sense that he was too young and too needed to be touched by death), made Metzgar his suppliant.